Page 57 of Morally Black Betrothal
Thirty-nine. Consummate bachelor. Dual degrees in business management and animal biology (that was a surprise) from Harvard, where he was also a champion boxer andrumored member of several secret societies. Since graduating, he had been working his way up the ladder of his father’s company, turning every rung to gold. The man was a modern-day Midas, perfectly trained to become his father’s successor.
Those were just facts, though. Despite being profiled a number of times in a number of fawning articles, I couldn’t find much more than those external tidbits. It was evident that Brendan was also intensely private. While I could find estimates of his net worth that honestly seemed made up (the Black family was collectively worth a staggering two hundred billion dollars, while the company in which they held a majority stake was worth close to atrillion), the only items about his personal life included a mention of his favorite book (East of Eden) and that he liked peanut butter.
I was meant to pretend to be engaged to the man. How could I make that convincing if I had no inkling of who he really was?
One thing was clear: Blackguard Holding wasn’t just an investment company. It was a family company.
To him, a fake engagement must have seemed like the simplest path forward. Far easier than an actual relationship or, far worse, letting people actually get to know him.
I wished it were that simple for me.
I pulled the contract out of my coat pocket and skimmed over the first page again. At this point, I practically knew the thing by heart.
Fivemilliondollars.
For a few months of work.
That money would change my life. And my sister’s. My entire family’s.
But there were other things stopping me.
Things like “open-mouth kisses.” Touching my “posterior region.”
“Nibbling.”
The problem wasn’t just that these things had actually been listed in the document like features of an apartment lease. The problem was that Iknewthe exact breadth and temperature of Brendan Black’s hands when they cupped my face. I knew exactly how far around my thighs they wrapped when he lifted me onto a table. I had experienced firsthand how expertly he kissed with a “light application of teeth” while sucking my lower lip. And I had dreamed four separate times last night what “placement of Client’s fingers up to two inches below the waistband of the Fiancée’s pants or skirt” might feel like…or if they continued several inches lower.
Neck. Ears. Jaw. Fingers.
It was like he wrote the stupid thing knowing the exact parts of my body he could touch to drive me crazy. I was generally a sensible person, but I had a feeling I’d lose all reason if that carefully maintained stubble rubbed the sensitive skin under my jaw for one second, let alone “up to ten.”
He wanted me to play a part. But if he was as talented as that mouth suggested last night, all that “play” would reduce me to a puddle of neediness.
Who would pay five million dollars for that?
It didn’t matter, I told myself as I separated the stack of cash due to Lincoln from my box and started to calculate the payments taken on my phone.
Parties will not engage in any kind of sex.
The words flashed through my head, along with the memory of Brendan’s lips on mine. If this was such a formal offer, strictly platonic and completely professional, then why had he kissed me so passionately?
What he was asking wasn’t prostitution, but it wasn’t that far off.
So, why did that particular section make me feel so strangely disappointed?
I was not going to have sex with Brendan Black.
A man who did not want to have sex with me.
His contract said so.
Right?
Not that it mattered.
The answer is no, I told myself as I sent a Venmo to Lincoln for today’s earnings.
Decision made.
